"How does the night look, Bessie?" she asked, in a low, scared tone.
"The moonlight is so ghostly," returned Elizabeth; "it looks frightened. No wonder—no wonder!"
Elsie trembled more violently, but it seemed as if some power stronger than her own will forced her to continue these harassing questions.
"And the cypress, Bessie, how does it look?"
"Stern and dark—no wonder, sheltering him," cried Elizabeth. "It beckons to me; the branches look like giant arms tempting me to ruin. I must go—I must go!"
Her voice was little more than a whisper, but it sounded painfully sharp and distinct. Elsie buried her face in both hands, once more to shut out the images it conjured up.
"Come back!" she moaned; "Elizabeth, come back!"
"I must go. It is time."
"Wait—wait—just a moment! Don't go yet—don't leave me—I shall die here alone."
Elsie dragged herself along the floor to where Elizabeth stood, and caught her dress in a convulsive grasp.